I stripped down to my undershirt and shorts and crawled into the other bed that had occupied the room. My legs were slipped into the specially made casts and hoisted upward. The doctor wrapped my face with bandages and helped me into the last arm cast.
“How’s that feel?” he said. “Not too tight?”
I moved my feet around in the oversized casts and wiggled my arm. “Feels all right to me. I can slip out of these in a hurry if I need to. Plenty of room.”
Hollister looked at his watch. “It’s almost six. We’d better get out of here.”
Doc Hoskins and Lanny Matura followed Dan out of the room, leaving me in the hands of “nurse” Reed. I could hear Hollister in the hall saying something to the guard at the door. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was familiar.
An hour and a half passed and the room was still quiet. “Doesn’t look like our boy’s gonna show,” I said.
“Shhhh,” Doreen said. “You’re not supposed to be able to talk yet.” She sat back down in the chair next to my bed and pretended to be asleep.
Another half-hour tiptoed by and the door opened. A uniformed officer stepped in. I closed one eye and left the other open only a slit. The officer looked over at the nurse and then back at me. He approached cautiously, stepping lightly.
I could see something in his right hand but it was just a blur. Then it came up in front of me. It was a syringe and it was dripping some fluid out of the tip. He raised it to my neck.
Officer Reed stood up from her chair holding a gun. She steadied it on the man. “Drop that syringe. Do it!” She shouted.
The gun in his left hand seemed to sweep upwards from nowhere. He fired and Doreen Reed fell to the floor.
My eyes were open now and wide as silver dollars. The man stepped back and smiled at me, the syringe still dripping. He put the gun back in his pocket and pointed the needle at my neck again. “So you want my money?” he said. “I don’t think so.”
The end of my arm cast exploded in a flash of flame and lead. The man twisted sideways from the impact of the bullet. He spun around and continued toward me, this time with his own gun drawn. I fired again and again. Three shots entered his chest and he fell to the floor.
The door opened again and the overhead light flashed on. Dan Hollister entered with his revolver pointing the way. Lanny Matura wasn’t far behind.
I’d managed to wiggle out of the leg casts as Doreen Reed got to her feet. She opened her nurse’s uniform and inspected the flack jacket. It had a dent where the bullet had struck her, but she was glad to be alive.
I swung my legs out of bed and stood, pulling my left arm out of the cast. It emerged, still holding my .45 in its sweaty grip. I unwrapped the last of the face bandages and stood looking at what was left of John Delany Kincaid.
“Not bad for a left-handed shot,” I said.
Two of the three officers who’d been guarding Ruiz entered the room, their guns drawn. They holstered them after a few seconds and a gratifying look at Kincaid’s body. I wrapped a robe around me and left.
The third officer in Ruiz’s room stood as I entered. I held one finger to my lips as I approached the bed. I leaned over to Hector, who’d just opened his eyes.
“Kincaid’s dead,” I said. “Looks like you’re gonna be a very rich man, Hector.”
I could tell by the wrinkles forming around his eyes that Hector Ruiz was smiling. A tear welled up in one of his eyes and a faint whisper came from the hole in his bandage where his mouth would be.
“Thank you, Cooper,” he said. “Thanks a million.”
“Two point three million, to be exact,” I said and squeezed his hand.
10 - Little Matt
It was going to be hot in Los Angeles during the Fourth of July festivities and I didn’t want any part of it. Last year the temperature reached up into the nineties and tempers flared. I wasn’t on a case at the moment and decided that my patriotism could be displayed just as well at my brother’s house in Chicago.
Philip was the firstborn and three years older than me. He’d left L.A. right out of high school and settled in Chicago during Prohibition. He and his wife, Betty moved into a double flat in the heart of the city where he was on the Chicago Police Department. Betty was content to be a housewife and mother to the two boys, Matthew and Troy. Troy was named after my grandfather and Matt was named after me. I always held a special place in my heart for Little Matt, as he came to be known.
It was a seven-hour flight to Chicago and I really didn’t want to be bothered. All I wanted to do was mind my own business and maybe take a nap. Talking to strangers who happened to be seated next to you didn’t appeal to me at all. I usually ended up next to some corn salesman from Iowa or a pimply-faced kid who talked non-stop about Frank Sinatra or some other contemporary crooner.
I was lucky this trip. After I’d settled into my seat, an elderly lady slid into the seat next to me. She glanced my way briefly, nodded politely and proceeded to take out her knitting. It was peaceful for the next seven hours. She knitted and I napped.
The plane landed at O’Hare Field just before sundown. Our stewardess reminded us to stay seated until the plane came to a complete stop. Everyone watched and listened but nobody cared. As we were taxiing, people were milling about the aisles and reaching into overhead compartments for their bags. Even the old lady next to me had put her knitting away and was reaching under her seat for her carry-on bag.
I took the opportunity to slide out of my seat and reach for my own bag in the overhead compartment. As I reached up, my jacket fell open, exposing my shoulder holster and my .45 automatic.
Grandma took one look at me and started screaming. “He’s got a gun,” she yelled in a frail voice.
I had my gun out and was scanning the aisles for the perpetrator before I realized she was referring to me. The site of me pointing my gun made her scream all the louder.
“He’s gonna kill us all,” she screamed. “Somebody stop him.”
I holstered my gun and held my empty hands out toward the woman. “Lady,” I said, “I’m a…”
Before I could finish my sentence three pairs of hands grabbed my shoulders and waist and I found myself on the floor in the aisle with three men on top of me. By the time the four props had stopped spinning and the plane had come to a complete stop, I could barely breathe.
The captain emerged from the cockpit and stood over us, looking down at me. I tried to talk but someone stepped on my chest with a heavy foot.
“We got him, captain,” I heard one of the three men say. “Careful, he’s got a gun under that coat.”
The captain reached into my jacket and plucked my .45 from the holster. He held it on me competently. “Let him up,” he said to the men, who cautiously stepped back while two of them hoisted me to my feet.
I reached toward my inside coat pocket for my ID when my arm was grabbed again. I held both hands straight up and pointed to my pocket with my right index finger.
“I’m just reaching for my wallet and ID. I made an exaggerated motion with my thumb and index finger and plucked the wallet from my inside pocket. I flipped it open and held it for the captain to see. It held my private eye’s license on one side of the wallet and my license to carry a gun on the other.
The captain took it from me and examined it. He closed the wallet again and handed it back to me along with my gun, butt first. I returned it to my shoulder holster and put my hands down.
“Next time to ride my plane, Mr. Cooper,” the captain said, “you let me know you’re carrying a gun unless you like this sort of physical contact.”
I looked at the three large men who had held me down. “No thanks, captain. Next close bodily contact I wanna make isn’t gonna be with any men.”
The stewardess flushed and looked away. I picked up my carry-on bag as the captain stepped aside and let me pass through the hatch and out onto the tarmac. So far my rest-and-relaxation trip was anything but.
I caught a cab in front
of the terminal and told the driver to take me to twenty-seventh and Kedzie. Then I sat back and took in the view along the way.
Twenty-five minutes later the cab pulled up in front of Phil’s house. Betty was hanging wash on the line in the yard. Matthew and Troy were chasing each other around the yard. Matt wore a small black cowboy hat while Troy sported three ragged feathers tucked into a leather headband.
Betty looked up from her wash basket and looked right at me. Her mouth dropped open and she dropped two clothespins she was holding there.
“Matt,” she yelled, rushing toward me.
I paid the cabby and set my bag on the sidewalk just as Betty reached me. She threw her arms around me and squeezed. I squeezed back and picked her up, spinning her around once and setting her back down. Matthew and Troy stopped chasing each other and ran up to me, each one grabbing one of my legs. I released Betty, knelt down and wrapped my arms around my two nephews.
Matt, the younger of the two, was first to speak his mind. “What did you bring me, Uncle Matt?”
I released the two boys and reached into my bag and withdrew two small pouches and handed one each to the boys. They shook them and smiled broad smiles.
“Marbles,” Troy squealed. “Thanks, Uncle Matt.”
Little Matt opened his pouch and reached in and withdrew a fistful of marbles. His eyes got wide as saucers as he plucked one from the bunch. “Wow,” he said, examining a ball bearing, “a steely.”
Troy sorted through his collection and exclaimed, “I got one, too. And here’s a peerie and a cat eye and a boulder.” He held the larger marble up for my approval.
The two boys thanked me again and ran off to play with their marbles in the dirt next to the house.
Betty slipped her arm around my waist and walked me back to the house. “Phil will be glad to see you again, Matt,” she said.
“What’s that ol’ horse thief been up to these days?”
“Still patrolling The Loop,” Betty said. “It’s a good job and he seems to like what he’s doing.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s half the battle—liking what you do.”
“You going to be with us for the Fourth?” Betty said.
“That’s why I’m here,” I said. “If I remember correctly, Chicago puts on one of the best fireworks displays in the country. Do they still do it down at the lakeshore?”
“You bet,” Betty said. “I hear it’s going to be their best display yet. I wonder what they’ll be doing back in California.” She opened the front door and we walked through the living room and seated ourselves at the kitchen table.
“Who cares,” I said. “That’s half the reason I came here for the Fourth instead of staying in L.A. There are too many crazies out there and lord knows I see enough of ‘em on the job. Just last month I investigated a murder case where the guy killed his wife with a pipe wrench. Man, she was a mess. She…”
Betty winced and looked away.
“Sorry,” I said, “I guess I do need a break from my work. When did you say Phil was due home?”
Betty glanced up at the wall clock. “About six is when he usually comes in. Just a few minutes yet.” She poured me a cup of coffee and set it down in front of me.
I was taking my first sip when I heard the front door slam and heard the sounds of four little feet coming my way. Little Matt ran up to me, all out of breath. “Dad’s home,” he announced.
A few seconds later the door opened again but closed a lot softer. The larger footsteps came closer and got louder. Phil’s eyes widened when he saw me sitting at the table.
“Matt, you ol’ scoundrel,” he said, extending a hand.
I stood and took his hand and shook it vigorously while grabbing his shoulder with my left hand. “You sure you’re my older brother,” I said, stepping back to get a better look. “Why you don’t look a day over thirty-five yourself.”
“The World War Kids,” he said. We both laughed.
Betty looked puzzled at both of us. “World War Kids?” she said.
Phil and I both smiled. “We were called the World War kids,” I explained, “because Phil and I were both too young for World War I and too old for World War II. At least I was. Matt, what was it that kept you out of the war?”
“My ear,” I said. “Remember? You were about twelve and I was just six. You found that firecracker the day after the Fourth of July celebration down at the lake. It hadn’t gone off and you picked it up and took it home. You figured you’d make a canon out of that old drain pipe you found in the alley behind the house.”
Phil made a face and looked down at the floor. “Don’t remind me,” he said. “I was just a dumb kid and thought I knew how to handle that thing.”
“Well,” Betty said impatiently, “what happened?
I started to laugh as I explained. “Well, here I am trying to hang out with Phil and the big kids and he keeps telling me to go home, but I wouldn’t. And…”
“And,” Phil says, “The Squirt, here, decides he’s gonna get a closer look at our homemade canon.”
I jumped in. “If Phil hadn’t pulled me out of the way when he did, that thing would have taken my head clean off. As it was, I was still pretty close when it went off and my left ear hasn’t been the same since. I rang for a week straight and they thought I might end up deaf in that ear. Ma was furious and dad gave it to Phil pretty good that day.”
Phil rubbed his butt. “Oh, I remember all right.”
Troy and Little Matt looked up at their dad in wonder. Phil added, “but after that I listened to my dad and didn’t do it again, did I?”
I shook my head and looked down at the two boys. “Nope, your dad here didn’t do much of anything for the next week, least of all sit down.”
The boys tried to hold back a smile but it was too hard and they both broke out in laughter. They stopped laughing when they caught Phil’s stern look. Phil had to laugh himself when he thought about it.
“Go outside and play,” he told the boys. You’ve got an hour left until bedtime. Better make the most of it.”
The boys made a mad dash for the door and slammed it behind them. Phil took a seat at the table and Betty poured another cup of coffee.
“You here for the fireworks show tomorrow night?” Phil said, sipping his coffee.
I nodded. “Yeah. That and just to get away from L.A. and the job for a while. Betty tells me it’s going to be a good one this year.”
“That’s what I heard,” Phil said. “I pick up all kinds of information with the hundreds of people that I see in a single day. That all anyone’s been talking about for the past week now.”
“Sounds like it’ll be worthwhile,” I said. “Any plans for tonight?”
“Nothing special,” Phil said. “But tonight’s the night for Mystery Theater on the radio. I don’t like to miss that one.”
“Radio?” I said. “Maybe you haven’t heard yet but they have television now.”
Phil shook his head. “That’ll pass. It’s just a fad now, but you mark my words, it’ll never take the place of radio.” He unbuckled his holster and hung it on a peg next to the kitchen door. He took the revolver out of the holster and laid it on a shelf above the refrigerator and locked the door.
“You’re pretty careful with that, aren’t you?” I said.
“Gotta be,” Phil said, “With those two around the house. I’ve seen too many kids killed by their parents’ gun left loaded around the house.”
I stifled a laugh.
“What?” Betty said.
I told her and Phil about the little old lady on the plane. They both got a kick out of my predicament and I enjoyed telling the story. It was like old times again being around my big brother.
Betty had put the boys to bed and the three of us listened to Mystery Theater and sipped out coffee. When the show ended Betty took our cups into the kitchen and I could hear her running water in the sink. Phil leaned forward in his chair.
“Come on, Matt,” he said, “you
can level with me. What brought you to Chicago? And don’t give me that fireworks celebration story. I know better.”
I shook my head. “That’s it, I swear,” I said. “I just needed to get away from the West Coast insanity and feel normal for a change. That is if I can call you normal.”
Phil made a fist and punched me in the shoulder. I made an exaggerated motion of rubbing the spot he’d hit.
“Still the bully, I see,” I said.
“Me? You were the scrapper, if I recall.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but where do you suppose I picked it up? That’s right. You.”
Phil winked at Betty. “Kid still wants to be like me after all these years.”
“Like you?” I said.
“Who was a cop first?” Phil said.
I nodded. “You.”
“Who got you a spot on the force?” Phil added.
“You,” I conceded.
Phil pointed to the holster that still hung under my arm. “Who taught you how to shoot that thing?”
“I get the point,” I said. “Just ‘cause you’re older and had the chance to do all those things before me, that’s no reason to hold it over me, is it?”
“Pop wouldda been proud of you,” Phil said, grabbing the framed picture from the living room table. He stared at it for a few seconds and then added, “You’re just like him. Hard to believe he’s been gone six years already.”
“Your dad would have been proud of both of you,” Betty said. You both did a fine job carrying on the Cooper name in law enforcement.”
Phil tossed his head to one side. “She’s right, you know. I’d have liked Pop to live long enough to see how far we’ve come. He’d have enjoyed it.” He handed me the picture. “You know, Little Matt’s always asking me about my work. I think he may follow in my footsteps someday.”
“What about Troy?” I said, looking at the photo of my father.
Betty perked up. “Troy has an interest in music. Says he wants to play guitar like Les Paul someday.”
“And you encourage him?” I said.
“Why not?” Phil said. “We bought him a cheap starter guitar and he plunks on it every chance he gets. Heck, if everybody wanted to be a cop, there’d be no one left to arrest.”
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 36